


Blood's Merely An Expense

by beeapocalypse



Series: dungeon full of fools [1]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: +found family bc thats a Really Good trope that i love, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eldritch Horrors, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, also little fun fact. the guys the bh kills in his comic, are the corrupt lawmen of the houndmasters comic, bc i Love My Man+need to properly develop him, but the main focus is on the bh+learning how to cope!, hm. interesting!, i guess? nesdin just kind of exists and everything bad happens to him, renyauld+dismas are a part but i dont want to clutter their tags, thats the heir! wild bastard, the ship stuff is lowkey at stuff+slowly increases, theres like. lowkey references to self harm+suicidal ideation, theres some individual houndmaster stuff too, this is abt repressing trauma+learning how to deal w it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-05-15 14:48:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14792550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeapocalypse/pseuds/beeapocalypse
Summary: Verse XIII: Only the faithless fear deathWhen the law fails you, take the law into your own hands. When you need money, bloody your hand for those with coin but not enough guts to do it themselves. The philosophy of the bounty hunter, the driving mantra. Anything that doesn't add to the job, that doesn't make him better at killing, is a detriment to Nesdin. He pushed it down. But in the cursed hamlet he has bunked down in for the foreseeable future, surrounded by those of weaker will and lesser stock who share their woes without thought, things begin to dreg up.(im REALLY bad at summaries ghfhd its abt a bounty hunter who hasnt felt an emotion in 85 years learning that its like. actually normal to be bothered by things and how to healthily deal w his suppressed shit. theres also a cute dog+bonding over corruption in the law)





	1. the bro activity: killing skeletons together

**Author's Note:**

> hewwo my names valentine and im a bastard who writes gay shit when im sad pwease enjoy my mess
> 
> also fun little character tidbit nesdin would think t posing jokes are the bane of comedy but once laughed a facebook minion meme

_The human body never truly becomes numb to pain. It’s always there, always needling away at the nerves as they desperately tell the ragged brain that something is wrong. Stabbing, burning, aching, tearing, stinging, throbbing, keening, lancing, piercing, like a bubble of hot puss trapped underneath the skin and ready to burst, to send its vile liquids dripping through the veins and infect the rest of the body. Blunt or sharpened, old or new, pain stayed in the body. It was loyal like that._

_What did numb to pain, however, was the mind. This is how its always been. Don’t worry, I’m used to it. It’s been like this so long that I don’t even notice anymore. I don’t really care. Statements that show the wearing down of the mind, how the pain’s puss has drip drip dribbled its way through the body and into the brain, infected it and numbed it. The nerves may scream and cry all they want, but they went unheeded. Be it by a need for the focus that would otherwise be wasted on pain placed somewhere more important, a teeth gritting determination to never bow down to weakness, or that aching_ **_numbness_ ** _that spread throughout all aspects of life, made the world wash out and slowly drift away, pain could be ignored._

_The boy hadn’t quite learned how to do that yet. He struggled. His feet ached and blistered in the poorly fitting boots, his knuckles were bruised from countless full bodied punches thrown, stomach churning and turning on itself due to both hunger and an unrecognized illness. Hacking coughs hurt the throat, sleepless nights hurt the eyes, and the shouts of the gang that he had squirmed his way into heart the ears. Life hurt._

_On_ **_THAT_ ** _day, what hurt the most of all was the low ache of a wound smothered with two draws of whiskey (_ **_unwilling_ ** _) and an unhealthy dosage of laudanum (_ **_VERY willing_ ** _). He had been sentenced to bed rest. A street fight gone wrong, his brave and steadfast nature getting him naught but a bullet in the gut for his troubles._

_It had gone like this- The boy had been with three others, people that were the closest he had to family. Street rats, the lot of them, but his street rats. They stuck together through thick and thin. They were coming back from a good day’s work of touring the local market, scouring through the stalls and chatting up the folk to get a pulse on the beat of the city. Understand the recent happenings, tap into the rumor mill, so on and so forth. He had even spent a pretty coin on some sweet tasting fruit that got stuck in between his teeth._

_It was on the corner by the butcher. The blood smelling one, the one everyone called the Chopper’s Corner. One of his pals had been leaning on his shoulder, yapping about some girl he had bedded or something, before he suddenly stiffened. Like a dog catching scent of a cat. Across the Chopper’s Corner, a pack of street rats that were definitely_ **_not_ ** _his._

_The gangs didn’t have names. Not the serious ones at least. So the boy couldn’t curse a proper name for his bedrest, for his rising fear that he wouldn’t be able to eat or drink properly ever again. If he even lived through the night. He was numb enough for now, enough to expend what mental capacities he had on ignoring the pain. Pushing it down._

_He had gotten shot because he had refused to run. It started out simply. A few shouted insults, both groups feeling safe on their opposite sides of the street. A few rude gestures, the other pack looking a little tipsy. The bar was down the way they had been walking from. A few threats, nobody quite taking their enemy seriously. Then, a pistol was drawn._

_The reaction was instantaneous. The pal who had been leaning on the boy’s shoulder throughout the entire ordeal stiffened up and a look was passed over his head between the three. His eyes were busy, busy staring at the sudden weapon and trying to connect it with the situation, and he did not see the shifty looks. They had height advantage over him (_ **_obviously, he was the runt. The too young one, the too small one, the too wiry one_ ** _), as well as experience. They had seen guns and they knew how to survive them. So, after a pause, they scattered. Rats exposed to light, shadows within a cupboard when it is flung open during the day, criminals seeing their better and reevaluating the situation._

_He was left behind. He got into his mind that he needed to distract those common street thugs from his own ilk. He jeered and shouted at the pistol holder, screamed whatever vile things leapt upon his tongue, and he-_

_Well, he got shot._

 

\---

 

Dismas’ pistol typically barked. Sharp and short, to the point. A plume of smoke that burned the lungs, a hot piece of lead that seemed to always find its target. A bit of a beast, but one that the man had under leash and chain. What happened when he pulled the trigger was predictable.

Inside the Ruins, where the walls closed in oppressively and even the most open of rooms felt as if it was a struggle to draw a full breath, it _roared_. The muzzle flashed far brighter than the sputtering torch Renyauld grasped in a gauntlet, and the smoke seemed far more in quantity than it ever had in previous firings. Nesdin took a sharp breath through his nose and felt the burnt air fill his lungs. A gloved hand clenches on the handle of his axe as teeth clench down too. Too close, too loud for his liking.

He pushed it down. His eyes scan what shoddy crew they have stumbled upon, thoughts already awhirl. There had been a clatter of bones barely audible underneath the blast of the gun ( _the gun which is now being loaded behind him, Dismas’ voice breathy and low as he mutters curses_ ). A hit, then. His ears ring. His teeth grind against each other. Eyes rove through the smoke. Glint of steel and righteousness barreling into bone, an already guttering torch tossed at the other standing skeleton for distraction. Nesdin’s hands shift from the axe to something more fitting. Junia’s chanting lilts in the air, cuts through the sounds of havoc.

They were a good crew. Nesdin had known that since the Heir had introduced them all in their office. Crusader, bounty hunter, highwayman, vestal. Out of the three of them, he had only worked with Renyauld, once in the Warrens surrounded by putrid flesh and rotting blood. He was a good man. Nesdin was the odd man out in this team put together on a mission to scout and map out as much of the ruins as they could, the newest of all of them, the odd number in the equation.

Nesdin’s hands find the cool of a chain at his belt. They undo it with quick motions, having draped it there for free hands before. The heavy hook on the end of them swings through the air experimentally a few times and he looks back up to the battlefield. Pistol still being loaded, prayers still being chanted, and Renyauld’s greatsword still flashing as he blocks an overhead swipe of a rotten wood club. Engaged with one skeleton, the clothes of it in the style of a peasant and nearly eaten away in its entirety by the Ruin filth. One laid out on the ground, skull shattered by lead. One hanging back, to the side of the crusader and looking with a disturbing amount of intelligence for the right time. For the man to misplace his step on a scattered tibia, for his foot to slip just the slightest bit and leave him off balance-

The plague doctor, the fourth to complete this old team, was missing. Last seen heading into the brothel with the most expensive flagon of ale the tavern stocked with free arm draped around one of the girls. So Nesdin was offered the opportunity to prove himself to the old pack. To the dogs of the hamlet, those who had seen everything to take place in the Heir’s crusade against their ancestor’s misdoings. He had grunted at the offering then, taken it because he’d rather be on the job than watch fresh faced recruits get the wrong understanding of what was in store for them in this haunted land.

The hook sung through the air, struck its target right where the bounty hunter had aimed. Chipped its way through bone and age rotted armor, embedded within the collarbone of the lurking skeleton. It jerked its head up like a dumb dog. Like a rat seeing the light and being too blinded to flee away. Underneath his cowl, Nesdin’s lip twist into a sneer. He yanks the chain.

Dismas was talkative. Renyauld was quiet. Junia was devout. After the wagon ride with them to their destination, Nesdin added a new note to his very minute understanding of his crew. They were all, without a doubt, at least a little mad.

It was a dance. The skeleton tripped over its two feet ( _‘Look at him! He’s got two left feet, hasn’t ever danced a day in his life!’_ ) and Nesdin stepped forwards with axe in one hand _(The chittering of wicked beasts disguised as proper ladies whispered in the back of his mind. He pushed it down_ ). Raised it up up up and felt all of the coiled strength in his muscles before he sent it chopping DOWN upon the already bowed skeleton’s neck.

Dismas told many the charming anecdote and story of his days of crime ( _stories that sent the bounty hunter’s fingers twitching on the handle of his axe. He pushed it down_ ), his mouth a waterfall of poorly coped with anxieties if one saw how to read between the lines. Junia sat as if she were under inspection by the most holy of priests and glowered at any word or look she perceived to be directed her way, harsh in her tongue and her dolling out of verses as scolding for their sinful ways. Renyauld remained quiet, too quiet as he rubbed obsessively at the rosary he wore around his neck and never once interjected in the conversation happening about him.

Steel bit into bone and with a clatter the skull dropped off and the other bones followed quick behind. Nesdin hefted his axe back up, turned his eyes to see where Renyauld was and-

Nesdin ran a whetstone over his axe’s edge for the entirety of the wagon ride. Up. Squeal. Down. Squeal. He listened to Dismas talk and pushed down any urge to snap at some of the quips that reminded him of past jobs. He was a professional, he wasn’t about to lash out at a coworker. Checked his gear. Listened to one of Junia’s verses. Verse XIII: Only the faithless fear death. Resisted the urge to correct her. His faith in the Light perished when he took up his cowl. He didn’t fear death. Not in that moment.

**BANG**

Unexpected. His free hand flies up to grip at the side of his head, to try and block his ear through his helmet even as he processes the remaining skeleton clattering to the ground. Renyauld followed it through with a boot stomping through its just grazed skull, stopping the bone hands scrabbling at the ground with a deadly finality. Nesdin saw it through a haze, breath sharp and pitched. Dismas’ gun was a beast under leash and chain, but when it lashed without proper preparation he felt his heart stutter just the slightest bit. He tastes smoke on his tongue as he reigns in his breath, the others occupied with inspected the scattered bones for supplies. Stomps down on the nervous churning in his stomach that aches with a physical pain. Kills any thought of anything beyond the job.

He pushes it DOWN.


	2. dismas is bad at cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow a double update! wrote this instead of a math studies paper lol thats why its a little shorter than the first chapter gonna keep it in the 1500 or above range i think

_“This costs too much._ ”

_The boy had survived through the night. Was given the same dosage of whiskey and laudanum so that his pain was easily pushed down. He was still lying down on the bed and couldn’t even move his arms without feeling pain spike through his body. Imagined or not, it hurt. Hurt more than he would like to admit, especially to the person who was sitting on the edge of his bed and currently holding his hand with all too gentle of a care._

_“Don’t be ridiculous. Your life is worth this.” The boy watches the other as he rubs his thumb on a bruised knuckle. “We pooled our money together, since you kept the others from getting shot.” Unconscious motion or not, it felt nice. “Most of it was mine.” The admission is quiet, near whispered as if he hopes the boy won’t hear him._

_He does, and the truth of it rocks him more than he would like to admit. His bedside companion, his quiet comforter and companion of the hour, is a street rat like himself. Of the same pack and near the same age, the boy and Danvers were fated to either be friends or hate each other bitterly. And all he knew of the other pointed towards a startling inability to harbor such strong detestement towards anyone. But such kindness, such selflessness, is a rattling thing._

_“Didn’t need to do that.” He tries to keep his voice gruff. His already mangled throat helps plenty with that. He doesn’t like to appear weak around the other. Doesn’t like to be anything but his best, an admirable man with many a merritt. Danvers’ huff of exasperation and tired smile help fog his mind from the pain more than any foreign fluid would._

_“Yes,” Here, he tightens his grip on the boy’s hand by the slightest bit, leans forwards, “I did. I thought you were going to die when Margas told me what happened. You’re lucky a qualified clinic was so close by.”_

_There’s emotion in his eyes, something the boy can’t read properly. He feels as if he is being slowly suffocated, underneath the stifling warmth of his blankets and the other’s gentleness, laudanum slowing his usually quick mind. Unbidden, a smile crawls onto his own face and a word slips out. “Thanks.”_

 

When Dismas holds out a bowl of the foul stew he had been fretting over for a good time by that point, Nesdin cannot help but wrinkle his nose. An unidentified flotsam bobs in the gray, gruel-like broth. He thinks that at one point that it _might_ have been rabbit meat. Now it was naught but an instrument to make their excursion all the more miserable.

They had set up camp. The room was as cramped as the rest they had already passed through, cluttered with objects from a time long past that were strewn about all over now. Nesdin shifted his seating and nudged a book, near all pages torn from its spine, with his boot. The stew still remained offered. Backlighting its offerer was their pitiful campfire built of the sparse logs that Renyauld had carried alongside his own equipment and some books tossed in for good measure. While its flickering light illuminated the entirety of the small room, it didn’t offer much comfort. A frail, temporary thing in the ancient ruins.

“It doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.” Nesdin’s eyes shifted from the sludge to Dismas’ face, to his eyes that were crinkled in such a way that he could guess at the smile hidden behind that red scarf. Humorless, put on for show and in nervousness. Nesdin recognized already that his silent nature, his lurking ways, and his hidden face offset the man. The stew bowl was shaken a bit in invitation and a few drops dribbled out of it.

Messy. Nesdin’s nose wrinkled just a bit more but he didn’t object, taking it in gloved hands if just to get the highwayman to leave him alone. After a moment of closer inspection, lifting the spoon up to watch it thickly dribble down into the bowl, he doesn’t even grunt a thanks. Such mediocre work does not deserve that.

The four of them had already settled down to their individual activities to occupy them during the meal. Renyauld and Junia both had their prayer books, though, after a moment of hard staring at the now helmetless crusader, if the bounty hunter had to guess he would say only one of them was reading it. Dismas settled back down in his own respective cleared space on the stone floor, closest to Renyauld and facing the entrance they had come from. For a moment, peace. Nesdin raised the veil of his helmet and gives the stew an experimental taste. His stomach rebels, twisting in such a way that he fears, for the briefest of moments, sickness. Or an old wound come back to haunt him, opened by the sheer _disgusting_ nature of the meal. He pushed it down.

Across from him, a pair of dice flash into Dismas’ hand, held between fingers. Nesdin eyed them, then forced down another swallow of the stew. They change locations a few time, rolled about his hand and tossed up in the air in the way of a bored man, before he stills them again in a simple clasped fist and then looks up towards the bounty hunter. Expectant. The only reason Nesdin isn’t uttering a denial, _something_ to cut off the man before he can speak, is because he was caught mid-swallow.

“Care for a game of dice?” It isn’t regret that Nesdin felt when he chokes down his food and is already grunting gruffly, not even giving the man a real chance. No, it was annoyance. Annoyance at the unprofessional display of it all, of the attempt to buddy up when there are better things to do. Like clean his guns, or eat up his own fill. The bounty hunter already had his whetstone out, set on the ground beside him, for when he was finished with the bowl of stew. He added in a sharp shake of his head, just to get his point across fully. _No_.

“Hmph, someone’s particularly grumpy today.” That gets the barest of laughs from Renyauld and Nesdin feels a little triumph rise in himself. He was right, the crusader hadn’t been absorbed in his holy texts after all. The laugh is what it takes for Dismas to descend on a different victim, rolling the dice in his palm and leaning with familiarity on the other’s shoulder. Free arm reaching to shut the book himself, eyes crinkled with a _realness_ to them they didn’t possess when looking at Nesdin. Even Junia grants herself a reprieve to look up at the antics and doesn’t have a scathing verse on her tongue.

It strikes Nesdin, while watching the highwayman try to bait Renyauld into a game with bet offers, how much of an outsider he is to this crew. There was a fourth that was supposed to be here, a doctor of curious brilliance and vial upon vials of even more curious concoctions. Not a bounty hunter. He caught the slightest quirk of the holy woman’s lips as she shifted the heavy book in her lap a little, and something curled up in his hard, hard heart shivered. Outsider, watching through the window on something not his own.

Then he catches hold of the train of thought, comprehends just what he was thinking and has to push down a roiling sense of nausea. _Disgusting_. He was here to work with the others as a crew, here to scout out the ruins and stay alive. Keep the others alive too, if it didn’t risk his own hide too much. Not to fawn over some display of friendship like a weak kneed maiden, sighing to the starry night sky about how alone she was because her father didn’t allow her out to a dance. A hand clenched into a fist in his lap and it feels alien without the weight of an axe handle within it.

Nesdin pushed it down. STOMPED it down underfoot, grit his teeth and picked up his whetstone. Its squeal across the already sharp axe head mixed with the low, melodious voice of Renyauld as it mixed with Dismas’ more nasally pitch. He was a professional. He had preparations to make, rest to steal in this moment of peaceful respite.

And when he is shaken awake by Dismas late late later in during their calm camp, hears the low whisper meant to not disturb the others about how it’s his shift to watch over everyone, he doesn’t let the events of those dinner activities affect him. Doesn’t think of him when he catches Dismas right before he settles down to rest himself on the floor near the crusader with a whisper of his own. A wave of a gloved hand to bring the other back towards him, a gesture to sit down on the floor near him instead. Nesdin doesn’t think when he, flanked by his sleeping comrades and watched by sleepy suspicious eyes, points at the highwayman’s dirk and has him draw it. Shows him a better way of holding it, a more loose and fluid one that wouldn’t jerk about the wrist as much when stabbing through an opponent. Nesdin doesn’t think about the rejected dice game when he utters the closest he can manage to praise before sending Dismas off to rest with a little gift of knowledge. He doesn’t think at all, in that brief moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the flashbacks at the start of the chapter are gonna be a consistent thing up until the BIG climax of the story 
> 
> the lines for the bounty hunters skills that he shares w every other class like encourage and wound care are Good his interaction w dismas is based on the 'Hold your weapon lower. Loosen your grip... There' one bc its interesting to see such a self centered character mechanics wise at the very least (abilities synergise w self, camp skills are only for the bounty hunter) do smth for others


	3. enter dog man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh shit its the other half of the devilish duo !!!

_ Constable Pippery Bourdillon knew that he was a good man.  _

_ (“Justice,” His father used to say, surrounded by blue-gray clouds of smoke seeping from his pipe, “Is far bigger than any of us, boy.”) _

_ He made an honest living, working to defend the innocent and bring forth the vile crime in the underbelly of his city. Fought and protected with his own two hands, a blackjack, and a loyal hound. Was part of something wholly bigger than himself, willing to give his life for a cause. _

_ (“Everybody’s got a bad part of them. Something that sits close to the heart, a growth of corruption and deceit. It’s our job,” Here, the pipe is pulled out and pointed at Pippery, dark eyes narrowing ever so slightly on a stony face, “To make sure that those who give into that sickness don’t get to those who’re better than them.”) _

_ It was good to be part of a team. The police force of Lyon acted as a cohesive, well functioning unit, a singularity made possible by the efforts of the parts. The beat walkers, the inspectors, and every other part of the force worked towards one common goal. The keeping of order.  _

_ (“And you damn well aren’t gonna let innocents get hurt on your watch. If anyone’s gonna bleed, it’s gonna be you. You understand, boy?” And he would nod, looking up with wide eyes at his hero.) _

_ As soon as he was old enough, he enlisted in the force. Uttered the pledge with his right hand raised, vowed to uphold the law, shook the chief’s hand. His mother had near cried with pride, his father’s monosyllabic words of praise followed by puffs of smoke. Pippery knew what his life calling was.  _

 

“So, what’s you deal?” Leering at him from the opposite side of the carriage, what looks like an entertainer lounges. Bells jingle from the tips of their many pointed hat, a lute resting casually in gloved hands. When he first stepped in, having to whistle to get his hound to follow up the steps, Pippery had eyed the man with no small amount of suspicion. It didn’t do well for one’s health to trust easily. Especially not the sort who hide their face. 

For the first few minutes of the journey, peace interrupted only by the jingle of the jester’s hat at a too sharp turn or a too hard bump in the road, there was silence. Pippery was left to thread his fingers through his hound’s fur and contemplate what he was doing. Where he was going. Why he was. And then that nasally voice spoke up. 

“You’re not a small fellow, but you’re not that big either. Light armor and a cugel won’t do much against what’s at where we’re going, if I’ve heard the tales right.” The jester leaned forward, their head tilted and arms propped up on knees. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say the dog’s the fighter out of the two of you.”

His father didn’t raise a rude man, so Pippery pushes down any unpleasantness he might think about the other and offers a polite smile instead. “You’re right on your guess.” Holds out a gloved hand. “Constable Pippery Bourdillon. The hound’s Vertueux.” 

He wasn’t expecting anything more than a handshake and the jester’s name. Certainly wasn’t expecting the choked off giggle that slipped out from behind their mask, or the way they reared back and looked down upon him from their height advantage. “ _ Oh _ , would you look at this one? He’s got manners! Tell me, dog keeper, what’re you looking for here? A nice little kipper? A good place to go for a walk?” 

Pippery’s dealt with criminals. Horrible people who sought to harm others just for the thrill of it. Minds so twisted by their delusions and self reassurances that they believed their viles actions were for the good of their victims. The mocking lilt in the jester’s voice was not new to him, but it was unexpected. Hostility from a man just met. 

“I’m coming up to lend a helping hand. Heard about a bad bandit problem up here.” As well as problems most decidedly  _ not _ caused by bandits. But if he were to get wrapped up in that mess, it would be his just comeuppance. Karma catching up. “Just looking to do my job.”

“Your job, huh? A lonely little copper, heading up to the big bad Emmerich Estate to be a goody goody two shoes?” Their head angled up just a bit and Pippery caught a sight of light glinting off of the eyes behind their mask. They looked dead.

“Yes, my job.” It was hard to not grind out the words, to keep tension away from his fists. Vertueux shifted her position beside him, pressing her flank a little closer into his arm. “I don’t suppose you’re doing the same? Not much need for a musician among the thick of combat.”

Another laugh, another look at those dull eyes behind that alabaster mask. Pippery was starting to get a little antsy despite his best efforts. “Ah, I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me then. You can call me Bellecote. I truly hope that I get the chance to prove you wrong.”

 

When the carriage finally stops in front of the beaten down tavern of the Emmerich Estate, its the sharp notes of a lute that slip out first when the door is opened. The sleek furred body of Vertueux is next, bounding to the ground yet turning back to wait diligently. The two figures waiting under the stoop of the tavern stare at her, and she stares back evenly. 

It feels like taking a breath of fresh air to Pippery, to finally stumble out of that wooden prison and out to somewhere that has open skies and cool air and the opportunity to put space between him, the jingling jester, and the lordly musketeer. 

The musketeer had been picked up just an hour or so earlier, standing for cover from the slow drizzle underneath the closest tree dressed in finery worth more than what Pippery and Bellecote wore put together. She had her head at a permanent tilt that gave Pippery a good view up her nose, and a piercing sort of voice that spoke of a history of shouting over anyone else speaking at the same time as her. When Pippery asked her for her name, she let out a snooty laugh and tossed her head before braying out, “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me yet! Lady Harcourt. Be sure to brand that in your dull mind.” 

Getting trapped in that carriage with the unending plucking of Bellecote’s lute and Harcourt’s hemming and hawing of her past achievements was worse than that night Pippery had gotten stuck with prison watch after the boys had brought in a whole pack of drunk men. At least there was a set of bars between him and them back then. He almost cried when he felt solid ground underfoot and heard the jester’s lute finally silence. Thank the  _ Light _ . 

The peace doesn’t last long, because its Bellecote that emerges out of the carriage next, tripping over the steps and almost losing their balance in their hasty exit, Harcourt following right at their heels. “Oh, my dear lady, I didn’t know yo-” Whatever poisoned honey thing was going to come out of Bellecote’s mouth next was cut off as they were shoved to the side, Harcourt diving towards the stoop of the tavern to join the two already there in the cover from the rain that was rapidly picking up. 

“Are you to stand and soak in the downpour? Come on!” Pippery was already moving to follow her before her harsh bark, and bit off some waspish reply at the tip of his tongue. She was a proud one, that was for sure, but she didn’t deserve whatever might’ve come out of his mouth. 

Approaching the now trio at the tavern door, Pippery got a better look at the unknown two. The man on the right stood straight backed and proper, any features of his obscured underneath the unfeeling steel helm he wore. It was the garb of a crusader, and the sword at his hip showed that it wasn’t just for show. There was no reaction from him as Harcourt huffed over the rain and stepped aside to allow Bellecote to stand next to her on the quickly crowding porch. There was a sense of power about him, upfront and visibly in your face. 

The other man, however, was sleeker. Less noticeable physically, shorter than the crusader and leaning on one of the supporting poles. He wore commoner’s clothes and a handkerchief pulled up around the mouth, the gathering evening darkness doing its job at obscuring his form. But there was danger about him. The feeling that, somewhere dark and alone, he wasn’t to be trusted around anyone’s back, much less their purse. 

They were Renyauld and Dismas, and, as Pippery was to learn, they were a lot more than what they looked like now. Any sense of awe he may’ve felt in the moment was drowned out by the thunder of rain and the distinct desire to get somewhere dryer, though. 

“Hey,” Dismas said, looking over the three newest potential recruits they were to evaluate, “Welcome to the Emmerich Estate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey im uhh sorry that i havent updated in Forever i cant even really justify it so like. lol  
> enter pippery!! ive been really looking forwards to him ever since i started this i love him So Much and i hope that shows in this bc im excited for more of him  
> bellecote and harcourt too!!!! bellecote is going to play a major role in a certain arc that im looking forwards to a lot and harcourt is going to be a fun minor character (the musketeer!!!!! i love her so much even though shes a reskin of the arbalest i hope that it shines through that shes a completely whole character of her own)  
> im leaning towards either two nesdin chapters one pippery or two nesdin two pippery though it may change in certain special circumstances


	4. nesdin shows up for like two minutes to be a mild dick then leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an almost entirely pointless chapter but when i tried to cut it my brain started screaming at me so its still here say hewwo

_ He’d made arrests before, sure. Pulled authority plenty of times, went off running towards the chiming of a guard handheld bell to lend his hand in whatever was needed, but those were small time jobs. Something to go through the motions with. Pippery handled simple cases like assault and curfew breaking, hauling drunkards off to the tank to detox for a night.  _

_ His first major assignment came three months after he was accepted onto the force. He’ been getting ready to head out on his nightly beat, stopping right at the station’s door to check himself in the foggy mirror hung there to see if his badge was on right, when a runner caught him. Told him the chief wanted him for something special.  _

_ When he walked into the chief’s office, sweating and fidgeting under the stately man’s gaze as he approached the desk in the room, Pippery had thought that was the end. He was going to get kicked out of the force for something awful, something he hadn’t seen when he was doing it. He was responsible for the death of an innocent, he’d arrested the wrong person, he’d ruined something in the paperwork, he’d done SOMETHING. He’d get kicked off of the force, forced to hand in his badge and cudgel, and then his father would disown him. His life, the very purpose he got out of bed every morning would be ripped from him.  _

_ “Son,” The gruff voice snapped him out of the spiral, forced his eyes up to meet the surprisingly kind ones of the chief, “You got to stop thinking before people talk. You look like you’re about to drop.” _

_ “Sorry, sir.” The apology was automatic as Pippery took a seat. The possibility of punishment hadn’t left his mind yet. The chief could be luring him into a false sense of security. But that was ridiculous, the chief was a good man. He wouldn’t do that. Right? _

_ “I’ve been hearing good things about you recently. You’re Arundel’s boy, aren’t you? Tell him I said hello. It just isn’t the same without him walking the beats.” The chief shuffled a stack of papers sitting in front of him that Pippery hadn’t noticed, fiddling with them absentmindedly. “We’ve gotten good results because of the Bourdillon boys for a long time here. You understand what I’m saying?” _

_ “Uhm- My pa helped work out all the problems with how investigators did their investigating. Rules and regulations and all that. Right? And he told me about how my grandpa had a hand in making the force a proper thing, instead of a bunch of self assured men with wooden sticks running about.” He couldn’t see where this was going. _

_ The chief laughed, a jolly sound that shook him bodily. “Self assured men? I heard they were more like self assured thugs. But yes, your family has done a lot for us. And I think it's about time that I ask your help to change the force for the better. It wouldn’t feel right giving this honor to anyone else, really.” Another chuckle. “Have you heard of hunting hounds? What they’re used for?” _

_ “Nobles use them to track prey while hunting, sir. For their sense of smell.” Pippery wanted to think that he was getting an inkling of an idea of where this was going. That he had some hold on the conversation and that the chief wasn’t about to shake it up again. _

_ “Right. But deer and boar aren’t the only things that hounds can get a scent on. Tell me son, how good are you at working with animals?” _

 

“Dog, music, guns. I got that right?” Dismas pointed to each of the new trio as he listed out their most notable attributes. He had a contemplative expression on his face and was tapping one set of fingers on the table. Renyauld behind him hummed quietly in concurrence and kept his gaze steady on Pippery. 

“Wants to do his job, looking for some excitement, trying to find unique new prey.” Renyauld said after a moment. He didn’t point. The two exchanged a glance, helmet shadowed and closed off eyes meeting each other in silent discussion. A moment passed. Pippery shifted. Another. 

This was how the evaluation had gone so far, and Pippery felt like any wrong move would get him kicked out of the estate in an instant. Or shot. He had caught sight of the pistol shining on Dismas’ hip, had seen the man’s hand twitching towards it on occasion. Not comforting.

What he couldn’t fault the two on was perseverance. Renyauld had tried to start questioning them on that crowded tavern stoop at first, forced to stand close enough to his companion that their arms brushed against each other and having to raise his voice higher and higher over the thrum of rain. He kept on going, ignoring Dismas’ glances up every time lightning struck, until the barkeep himself had to force his way out onto the stoop and shoo them off. Scaring off his customers, he said. 

They headed to the abbey next. Vertueux forged the way, sprinting down the streets to wriggle her way into the hidden corners and follow after all the scents scattered about, running back to the rest of the waterlogged group when she got too far away from them. Renyauld and Dismas were next, though Bellecote and Harcourt were right on their heels, the latter barking for them to go faster. Pippery just tried to keep up while familiarizing himself with the streets. 

The abbey, Pippery had to give them credit for, worked for a little bit longer than the tavern had. Was dryer and quieter too. Renyauld sat on a pew as Dismas slouched against the back of it, and continued his foreboding lecture. Something about the foolish pride of men and downfalls that hurt more than just the sinner. Crimes of times long past and sickness of the land that rotted everything within. Pippery listened and distantly wondered if there was something in the air of the estate. Dismas was nodding along with Renyauld and offering his own tidbits once in a while (“ _ There’s pigs out there. Pigs that’ve got drums made out of stretched out skin and bone. Smells awful.” _ ), and there wasn’t any sign that they were telling a particularly elaborate joke. 

But that didn’t explain the rumors he had heard. The quiet whispers filtering down from the hillside estate to the common people. Talk of madmen being sent away from the place, babbling about bones that lived after death and meat that animated itself, eyes that stared and shadows that shifted. All he had were secondhand accounts. He’d never met one of these acclaimed rejects. 

The crack of a whip filtered up to the quiet hall of the abbey. Renyauld paused and looked down at the ground. A long pause, and then another, accompanied by a muffled cry. “The penance hall.” Dismas clarified after another silence, looking between the three. Harcourt flinched at the sound of the next lashing. 

They tried to press on diligently, but when Renyauld’s somber statement of, “These lands have been touched by something far more vile than what you may understand,” was broken into two by a particularly loud scream. Was it one of pain? Devotion? The line between the two were blurred. 

So that’s how they eventually ended up sitting huddled around one of the tables in the barracks. There were other adventurers there, sitting in predetermined groups or by themselves and all sneaking glances towards the strangers. The main room flickered between dark and dim, a sputtering fire and the setting sun filtered through shutters providing the only lighting. The smell of sweat and lived in clothes layered the air heavily. 

The pause stretched on long enough that Pippery was starting to get nervous. Was something about them bad? He and Harcourt were good for the job, he was positive of it. He had experience, could deal with the bandits ( _ Dismas had nodded along when he mentioned that, saying, “Those’re certainly trouble. More so than the usual, that’s for sure” _ ), and the musketeer was a hunter at heart, tracking and sharpshooting aplenty. Bellecote was… Questionable. As was their reason for coming here, if Pippery had to be honest. His motive was the most sensible, the least selfish. Where could there be a problem?

Finally, Dismas clapped his hands together and leaned forwards just the slightest bit. His eyes were crinkled just the slightest bit and there was a light in them that Pippery couldn’t help but wonder at. “Alright, that’s our piece said. Do you guys understand?”

“The ancestor here dug up a foul evil that’s infected the lands around here. There’s twisted beasts and madmen roaming about, affronting the Light with their existence. Our job is to do what the Heir tells us and to not die or go mad.” Harcourt paraphrased what the duo had spent the last hour telling them. She didn’t toss her head or raise her voice or even turn her lips up in some haughty sort of smile for answering before the others. She almost seemed thoughtful instead, eyes distant and fingers linked together. 

“Right. There aren’t many rules here beyond-” Pippery tried to listen particularly carefully to the man’s words there, he couldn’t help the need to know the law of the land, but something caught his eye over Dismas’ shoulder, “-Not hurting or stealing from your fellows. We’ve got to deal with enough-” The main door had been opened, a figure making their way in and having to fight for a brief moment against the now howling winds and rain to close it solidly. They looked soaked, “-Got a problem, you report it to one of us. Listen to the senior adventurers. There’s a reason why they’ve lasted so long-” 

The figure paused for a brief moment to pull off the thick coat that shielded them from the worst of the rain and hang it on the wall before making their way deeper into the room. “-If you really want to, you can cheat in the gambling hall. Just don’t let anyone catch you-” The further they got in, the more the light resolved their form from shadowy silhouette to actual person, “-You shouldn’t be encouraging them to do that, Dismas-” Renyauld’s voice, low and tinted with amusement. Pippery frowned at the person. They looked like they were walking towards them, but that wasn’t the only cause for suspicion. There was something about that cowl that seemed familiar, the sense of prodding at the mind growing stronger with each step they took closer and closer-

“Disma-” Their approach had been silent, but the glove placed heavily on Dismas’ shoulder got a reaction. The man flinched full bodily and jerked his head around sharply to see the person, a hand flying to his hilt. “Dismas.” Their- His voice was a gruff, steady growl and didn’t give hint to how close he could’ve just come to getting shanked or something.

Dismas stayed motionless for a moment, the crusader tensing beside him, before suddenly letting out a loud huff of air and letting his shoulders slump. “ _ Light _ , don’t sneak up on people like that. Could’ve shot you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” The hand was removed and Pippery could  _ feel  _ the indifference of the stranger from where he sat. Damn. “The Heir wants to know if the potentials are being sent back out with the wagon or not.” 

The rapidly growing dimness of the room didn’t help, but Pippery got the distinct sense of  _ danger _ , pure and undiluted, from the stranger. The set of his shoulders, the practiced crossed arm pose, the way he worked his build to  _ loom _ despite not even being that tall. The cowl with its cloth veil, the leather scale armor and equipment slung across it didn’t help his approachability much. 

“They’ve got potential. Tell them that we’re going to keep them until tomorrow at the least. Want to test out their skills and all that, you know?” Dismas wasn’t buckling under the gaze, though he did look away for a moment to meet the eyes of the trio. “Lads, this is someone who you go to if you’ve got a problem with your form or technique. Good teacher.” When he looked back to the man, it was with a pointed look in his eyes.

That got no reaction from the man beyond a critical look over the three, stalling on Pippery and his badge the longest. Finally, he tilted his head the slightest bit. No hand offered out in handshake. “Nesdin. Bounty hunter.”

Introductions were exchanged, Pippery going last and attempting to offer his hand out to the bounty hunter. “Constable Pippery Bourdillon. Pleased to meet you.” He even managed a small smile.

The room was too dark to even get a glance of it glinting off of Nesdin’s eyes. The eye holes of his cowl were black pits, windows into absolute nothingness. He remained silent for a moment that was just a little too long to be natural before grunting out an acknowledgement. The proffered hand was ignored, and he turned sharply on his heel to trudge back towards the door. 

Pippery stared for a beat before awkwardly lowering his hand. The bounty hunter moved like a man on a mission, heading away without any distraction. It was kind of unnerving, if he had to be completely honest.  

“Standoffish sort of fellow, ain’t he?” Dismas chuckled, and Renyauld let out a huff of breath. “You haven’t even scratched the surface. Don’t let it get to you. Everybody here changes after a bit, just what’s normal. It’d be more unnatural if you didn’t.” 

Dismas let them sit in the uncomfortable silence that followed that statement for a moment before standing up, gesturing for the others to do so as well. “Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you three get let in. There’s a free room you’ll have to share down at the end of the hallway.” A gesture in the correct direction. “Someone will come in the morning to get you for the evaluation itself. Rest well, you’ll need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two uploads less than three months apart?? wow!  
> we're writing two additional verses of america the beautiful in creative writing and i Fuckin Do Not Want To Do That so ive been procrastinating w this lol 
> 
> unrelated note 1: nesdin would suck major goblin dick at mario kart and once got so angry at it he almost threw up in his toilet. pippery is a accidental god at video games despite not going out of his way to play them
> 
> unrelated note 2: listen to EMERGENCY! by girls ritual its a Really Good album and dizzy makes good noise pop-y music i love her stuff so much and that particular album was playing while a lot writing this chapter


	5. the chapter where the heir shows up babey!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i hate that the longest chapter is the worst but again hellbrain tried to physically murder me when i started cutting things but like. whatever!!!

_ The boy never had been that good at fighting. He knew that, his friends and packmates knew it, and probably half of the other gangs knew it. He wasn’t that good at words either.  _

_ No, what he was good at was reading people. Looking at the way they moved their mouth when nervous, the barely there clenching and unclenching of hands, how someone’s eyes darted around in those minor, subtle little details that painted a picture of a person’s psyche. He might not be good at talking or fighting, but he was damn good at keeping an eye on those that were.  _

_ Danvers was one of the wordy fellows. He liked to talk about the gang and those in it, relaying their messages to the boy. “Adeny says you aren’t allowed to die until you pay her back those twelve coins you owe her” one day, “Ver has some bauble he nabbed to show you once you get out” the next. It was nice to hear about everyone else, but getting Danvers to speak about himself was worse than getting a dog to snap at its own master.  _

_ “What’re you going to do once you leave here?” The boy tried for the third time to start some sort of conversation that would get him words from Danver, not just messages he was bringing from others. It seemed innocent enough and he tried to school his expression to match it. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been admitted, little over a week, and sitting up was too much of an effort still. So the boy lay down on the same cot he had woken up in that first time, peering up at Danvers and into the morning light filtering in through the window behind him. The room was sparse, no personal touches and only cold metal medicinal tools.  _

_ “Going back to the boys. Oh, did I mention that Holland got it in his head that he should learn how to read? Heard something on the street about it I think. Don’t really have the details. It’s kind of funny to see him scrambling to buy all the bargain books in the market. You know how he gets when he focuses in on something.” And that’s how Danvers would always respond. As short as possible before suddenly derailing the conversation, bringing up someone or something else and talking too fast for the boy to get a word in before it was too late.  _

_ If the boy had a harder heart when it came to Danvers, he’d push more. Ignore the distraction, no matter how interesting it might sound. But he didn’t, so he huffed the smallest of sighs before managing an interested expression. “Really? That has to be a sight.” _

_ “It is. He’s gotten a couple of children’s book and a copy of the scriptures so far, I think. He has been talking about going to a chapel and posing as a peasant so a priest could take pity on him and start him off with the scriptures. Then he’d go on from there.” _

_ Danvers was good with his distractions. The image of Holland, towering intimidating Holland with that notched ear and thrice broken nose of his stepping into a church carrying a holy book and some children’s fairy tales was a good one. He’d have to let go of that fearsome dirk of his he was so proud of and insisted on displaying without hilt on his hip, give up the fake eyepatch he wore ‘for the look of it all’, as he said.  _

_ Danvers’ next words almost slipped past the boy’s occupied and still somewhat foggy mind. “That wouldn’t be necessary though. I offered to teach him and he accepted.”  _

_ The boy blinked. Took a moment to process the words, understand their meaning. “You can read?” _

_ “Yeah. Write, too. I got taught when I was a child.” The words were said casually, as if that was something normal. Like Danvers didn’t see the significance, the impressiveness of his achievements.  _

_ “When you were a kid? Who taught you?” The boy was intrigued now, even tried to sit up and winced at the effort after a moment and gave up. “You grow up somewhere where they taught you? Part of something that did? Your parents?” _

_ Maybe it was the barrage of questions, but Danvers’ expression suddenly shut down. The subtle upturn of his lip, the quirk of an eyebrow, they went away with hardly an indication. His eyes looked to the side for a brief moment before settling somewhere to the left of the boy’s head. It was like a switch had been flipped. “I don’t want to talk about that, alright?” _

_ They sat in silence for the rest of that long, long hour.  _

 

Its while Nesdin is hauling out the heavy straw targets of the training grounds that he hears the uneven clank and shift of plate armor behind him. Renyauld had caught him before he settled down for the night last night, told him that he was expected at the training grounds in the morning to work with the potentials. The crusader’s ‘request’ had been stilted, coming out more command than anything else, but it wasn’t like Nesdin could point that out. The man had tried to be at least a little more polite than the bare minimum afterall. 

“The crusader told me I would have a helping hand today.” The gruff voice behind him is a familiar one, one that eases what little tension resided in Nesdin’s shoulders. He waited until he got the last of the dummies hauled into a good spot, hearing the patient following footsteps behind him, before looking over his shoulder to reply. 

“Was told to come out here and lend a hand with the potentials.”

The man-at-arms standing behind him shifted his weight to his good leg. “Hrpmh. Could do worse, I suppose. I see you’ve gotten the grounds prepared.”

Even though his voice was gruff, there was something a little brighter shining in his only eye. Colliar was a good man. He had the bounty hunter’s grudging respect, an acknowledgement of the skills the man had. The barely there morning light glinted off of his armor, running along the dents of his ever present shield, and for a flash Nesdin remembers-

( _ It was the Cove they sent Nesdin to for his first expedition. Was made to lug around the logs they had to take, meant to stay in that damp series of holes for at least two uninterrupted days. When he thinks later on the look he saw in the Heir’s eye when they were sentencing him to such a foray, he suspects it was a test of will. One that he succeeded in, that was for damn sure.  _

_ He was surrounded by the more experienced, people whose names slipped his mind and with quirks plenty offputting. Ordered to follow behind the woman with blazing red hair and blue paint smeared across her face who took the lead, the clanking of plate metal and shifting of a doctor’s long, oil treated leather coat behind him.  _

_ He had been expecting bandits. Men who had gone mad from their surroundings, blabbering sad little things who terrorized the wealthy Heir enough to build up such an expedition of killers. Perhaps it was a serious problem, perhaps it was more a militia than a gang by that point, but at least, he thought despite all he had heard already, it was human. It was what he understood.  _

_ What he got instead were twisted, gasping and burbling creatures that leapt from pools of water and hissed and spat and snarled as they swung with primitive weapons. Strange songs at the edge of his hearing, lulling tunes that whispered for him to leave the group, to take up his axe and cut down the doctor, the hellion, himself.  _

_ And when he finally, finally saw something he recognized in that horror show of reflective scales and glassy eyes, caught sight of human flesh and human limbs garbed in some strange adornment of metal and cloth, it didn’t even have the decency to act in the way he expected. No, the figure raised up a rusted metal staff, garbled prayers slipping out from chapped lips, and then- _

_ And then Nesdin was stumbling and tripping over his feet, a great mass of pulsing fleshy SOMETHING curling its way around his chest and pulling him in the witch’s direction, from behind the protection of the hellion and into the fray and rising clouds of the plague doctor’s bombs. Pulled directly into the path of the witch’s companion, a towering bulk of a man who whipped his jagged blade back, coiling the entirety of his strength into his arm before sending Nesdin’s death wailing down at him- _

_ But it never came. Even as he closed his eyes in a unforgiviable moment of weakness and dread and FEAR, flinching away from the incoming deathblow while still staggering, it never came. Instead of the sick sound of metal piercing and tearing at flesh, there was a great CLANG and SHRIEK and then Nesdin was forcing his eyes open to meet the sight of the brute overstepping, of stumbling over his own feet because all of that forwards momentum had been directed directly into the steel vanguard of Colliar’s shield.  _

_ Nothing had looked as holy in Nesdin’s life as the man-at-arms striking back at the brute in retribution, head backlit by the glow of the torch the plague doctor held high in rally.) _

-how they met. He shakes it off and grunts for lack of a better reply to what Colliar had said. He had been told to come, so he did, and he did the setting up because it was all he could without the potentials being there. 

“You’re staying for the evaluation.” Not a request, not even one awkwardly phrased as Renyauld’s had been. A command. “They’ll need someone insightful to adjust their methods if we’re recruiting them.”

“Not a teacher.” Nesdin pointed out, biting back more of the growl in his voice than he typically would. Renyauld had made an obviously pointed comment along those lines too, he must have heard of  _ that _ night from Dismas. Colliar was outside of that exclusive two person circle. 

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Colliar’s voice is gruff, but there’s a barely there upturn of his lip. If he knew how it would get around, how everyone would  _ focus _ on it so much, Nesdin never would’ve pulled Dismas aside that night. 

 

The potentials arrive. Eventually. Nesdin had discussed what the evaluation would consist of, adamantly refusing to provide any of his own input when the man-at-arms clearly wanted him to do so. They’d shifted the equipment around a little to accommodate for minor tweaks. Colliar was just getting started on a tale of one of his exploits when the pitter patter of paws heralded the approach of the three. 

The hound headed the pack. It halted at the entrance of the grounds, watching the two men with a steady gaze and low wag of the tale. It looked smart, Nesdin begrudgingly admitted, and seemed well trained. A sharp whistle echoed from behind and it turned tail to dart back to its master. 

It didn’t take long for the three to reach the entrance after the hound’s appearance. The musketeer was dressed as immaculately as Nesdin remembered, a new feathered hat upon her head and gun slung over her shoulder. The jester’s mask and unchanged clothing made it hard to get a read on them, and the houndmaster looked… Tired. As if he had been responsible for wrangling his fellows. 

Colliar’s the one who makes the first move once they’ve stopped just inside the grounds, looking around like lost lambs, clearing his throat and clashing a metal gauntlet against his shield. The sound hurts Nesdin’s ears. “Alright now lads, step it up! Don’t drag your feet, you’re here for a reason!” He’s the one who orders them into an orderly line, the one who hums audibly while staring them down. Nesdin settles for crossing his arms, leaning his weight on one leg and eyeing the  _ constable  _ and his hound. He’s seen that uniform before. 

“Hrmph.” Colliar grunts, looking up towards the bounty hunter. “Thoughts? The original plan still stands.”

“Run them through it.”

 

Lady Harcourt took a fair time sighting her gun. It was a peculiar detail, something that stood out among all of her boasting and confidence. The target, a cloth bullseye pinned to the chest of one of the straw dummies, was far, as far as they could put it and keep it on the designated shooting range, yes. But she bragged of many a shooting contest under her belt. 

Nesdin watched her breath in and out steadily, making minute adjustments and relaxing into a posture. He didn’t know much about guns, kept away from them when he could admittedly, but it seemed like quite the hassle for a master marksman. But at the very least, it gave him time to siddle away from Colliar’s side and approach the constable. 

He was standing a proper distance away, watching while one hand absentmindedly ran through his hound’s fur. There was no indication of emotion or thought on his face, a perfect blank slate. Nesdin felt his lip turn as he slowed to a halt beside the man. 

“You were a policeman before coming here.” The order of words might sound like a question, but the tone doesn’t. Nesdin doesn’t intend to leave the man any room to wiggle out of acknowledging that fact. He kept his voice low though. Out of respect for the musketeer and her focus. 

“I’m a constable of Lyon. Have you been there?” The man-  _ Pippery’s _ voice is steady, and he looks into the eyeholes of Nesdin’s cowl without backing down when he talks. 

“Lyon.” The name of the town is like ash upon his tongue. “I have heard of it. There was a scandal there among the watch. Three months ago?” He knows when it was. He knows it very well.

Pippery blinks. That blank look finally falls off his face for a moment, surprise apparent in his eyes before he’s looking away. His voice is still pleasant when he talks. “The law continues to be upheld there. That is what matters. There are good men on the force and they work to protect citizens from what may come. We watch and protect the people.”

“Nobody watches your kind. Corruption spreads through ranks. You could swindle those you’re sworn to protect and they would never know.” He knows that he’s letting some vile emotion he can’t put a name to slip into his voice, that his mask his dropping just the slightest bit, but Nesdin presses on. “Bodies could be hidden. Blamed on somebody else. It’s happened before. Nothing to say it won’t happen again.”

He takes satisfaction in how the constable reels back, just a little bit, throughout the hissed out speech. His eyes widened and his mouth opened just the slightest bit before slamming down into a glare and snarl. Baring his teeth like a dog. A flash of genuine anger. “What are you saying, you damnable bru-”

The  _ CRACK! _ Of Harcourt’s gun swallows up the sound of whatever insult Pippery was attempting to spit out. His eyes were still narrowed dangerously though, teeth exposed in a doggish kind of snarl. Nesdin simply stared at him. Waited patiently. The constable would be the one to fold, not him.

And fold he did, as Colliar’s voice started up again, directing Harcourt more. He blinked and looked away sharply, shoulders hunching up just the slightest bit. Nesdin stood his ground, staying right beside the man as the musketeer’s training continued. 

 

The Heir made their appearance halfway through Nesdin’s spar with Bellecote. There was nothing at the gate of the training grounds one moment, and then in the next, Nesdin happening to catch a glimpse of it as the jinging bastard slipped out of the way of yet another one of his punches, they were there. Silent. Foreboding. Ominous.

He’d heard from the innkeeper that they were once an officer in Her Majesty’s army, a commander of damned men and a name to be dreaded by the ranks of both sides. And it showed, in the straight backed and poised manner in which they carried themself, all sharp angles and properly pressed clothes with polish a-glimmering. The sword that shines bright without sheath at their hip is only a reminder of that background. 

The jingling bastard finally missteps, placing too much weight on their left foot and overbalancing to compensate, and Nesdin capitalizes on it. Best to finish it quick, with the Heir watching like a wolf on the horizon. He steps in close and takes a good long look into the eyes of the jester in that infinite yet almost non-existent moment before he slugs them solidly in the throat. 

The pleasant chime of Bellecote’s bell tipped had undercuts their ugly choking yelp as their body hits the ground. Nesdin doesn’t let up, following through with a boot stomped down on their wrist so he can crouch down closer to their slumped level. “Yield.”

Dark eyes stare back up at him. They’re narrowed and harrowed, a deadly sort of light in them that doesn’t let up even as Nesdin glares into them, even as the jester struggles to properly breath. He gets the feeling that he’s holding down some sort of deadly viper, a thing that’s about to start wriggling out of his grip and lashing out at anything they can get their fangs around. He pressed down a little harder and puts more growl into his voice. “ _ Yield _ .”

A beat, and then the tension in the jester’s shoulders recede. They let out a coughing huff of breath, give him one last baleful glare. “I yield.” Nesdin removes his boot and moves back a step, listening to the wheeze of them as they get back up on their feet and hold a hand to their throat. He doesn’t offer a hand in aid. 

“You’re slippery, but you’re weak. The only defense you have is not getting hit to begin with. That doesn’t work here. Some things are unavoidable. Don’t favor your left either. Makes you predictable.” He gets an unintelligible croak in response. Knocked the wit right out of them, he notes with a grim sort of amusement.

A few claps echo their way down to where the group stands. The Heir approached now, tucking their gloved hands back behind their back after the final clap and inclinning their head in lieu of a proper verbal greeting. “These are the potential recruits?” They were dressed in their long black cloak and hat pulled low over their eyes, the signature greasy Emmerich hair near shielding them in their entirety. “I see you are evaluating them.”

“That we are, m’lord. Got to see how they’d fare out there.” Colliar nodded, giving a sharp look to the three potentials for them to straighten up. “Strengths and weaknesses, you understand.”

“Indeed.” The Heir looked away from the man-at-arms to give the potentials a critical gaze. They were all shuffled into a somewhat decent line facing them, posture passible for something respectful even if Harcourt was peering at them with a contemplative look on her face. “Well? Are you to just stand there and gawp or are you to introduce yourselves?”

The constable’s the first to step up, holding out a hand with a friendly smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Constable Pippery Bourdillon, at your service.” The Heir looks him up and down without a word before looking at Bellecote. The hand goes ignored, and Nesdin feels something akin to a petty joy at that. The man’s false charm won’t win over such a fellow. 

“Bellecote.” The introduction was short and without any characteristic mirth, the jester still massaging a bruising throat and wincing at the peculiar gruffness of it. 

“Lady Harcourt. And you must be the-”

“The sole Heir of the Emmerich family, yes. You have a keen eye.” Their voice is flat, but there’s a look in their wolfish eyes that betray sarcasm for the simple purpose of confusion. It dies down with the next words out of their mouth. “You are Adelaide Harcourt. Your face looked familiar. How goes the sharpshooting? You were quite the rising star when I last heard your name.”

The budding smile on Harcourt’s face abruptly fades away. It doesn’t die away instantly, but withers up. The lights in her eyes click off, the warmth of her cheeks cool, her lips turn downwards. “Ah, I have left that in the past.” An attempt to rekindle it. “Hunting is my new passion. I have heard of quite the strange sport in these lands. I would expect nothing less from you Emmerichs.”

The Heir goes through the motions of a smile, and it looks genuine, but their voice is cold. “And I should know not to think the predictable of the Harcourts.” Their gaze suddenly snaps to Nesdin. “Continue. We have need of fresh blood.” Then Colliar. “A moment of your time, if you would. There are details to discuss pertaining to our three friends.”

The two tread off to discuss their own machinations, and Nesdin stares at the armored back of Colliar with no small envy in his heart. He turns to face the four pairs of eyes watching him and manages to stifle the worst of the sigh he lets slip out. He doesn’t know whether to curse Dismas’ name, his own, or those of the past, so he settles for crossing his arms and mustering up the worst glare he could. “Carry on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the heir+bellecote are both nb bc im mx projection babey!!!! theres not going to be any institutionalized bigotry in this bc fuck that 
> 
> anyways like two nights ago over reheated soup i was hit w an absolute WAVE of inspiration revolving around harcourt (whom i love and cherish) and i take back what shes going to have a bigger role than originally predicted 
> 
> also!!! the holland mentioned in the flashback at the start is the man himself holland 'dumb bitch' highwayman from my old alms for the sick fic that i orphaned prematurely hes a good character and is going to play a role in this that im excited for (hgfhdh theres so many things im excited for abt this im just taking so...... long....... w the set up bc im stupid and have a stupid brain)


	6. is the dog a metaphor? is nesdin a dickhead who communicates through violence? both r yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pippery: oh boy im looking forwards to training !  
> nesdin: its sparring time naughty children :)
> 
> alternate chapter title nesdin shows off and beats up a bunch of nerds

_The dog to head the inclusion of the beasts in the law enforcement of Lyon was a generous donation from a local Duke. A mean old bastard, Loupe was a hunting dog who had been retired from the Duke’s pack of hounds after lashing out at one of his attendants. The hound was blind in one eye after going up against a boar who had knocked his master off of his horse and was perpetually surly._

_Pippery first saw the hound three days after his initial meeting with the chief and knew as that one beady eye scanned over him from where an attendant of the Duke held it by a chain collar that he was up for one hell of a challenge. Loupe was well trained and most importantly had experience tracking that would be vital when training the hound to walk the beat, but he was stubborn too. A real stubborn bastard who fought against the leash Pippery was forced to keep on him, pulling towards where HE wanted to go, believing his convictions were above that of the budding houndmaster_

_He brought the hound home with him after the first week at the chief’s recommendation, believing it’d help bonding. Loupe had been staying at the station before, chained up to a pole in the training yard and left bowls of water and raw meat by those brave enough to get near him. The beast, if Pippery must be honest, intimidated him. Loupe was big, near reaching his hip at standing height, and muscles from the hunt still lay bunched up underneath shaggy fur. He had a way of staring just so with that single eye of his, the other hidden under a matted mess of scar tissue and fur, a way of looking like he was staring straight through somebody and into their heart._

_If Pippery got him trained up and settled down, Loupe could make a killing in the interrogation room._

_The first night of being forced to drag and coerce the old bastard into his home, Loupe sniffed the place all over and settled down in the darkest corner of the living room, snarling at the man’s first approach and effectively isolating himself in a house of three people. His mother kept her distance as well, and his father merely gave a glare of his own to the beast before settling down in his chair for the traditional evening smoke and scan over the papers. Pippery was alone in his efforts to bond._

_The worst thing, possibly, was that Loupe wasn’t bad at the job when taken out on the beat. If he was, Pippery could complain and request a new hound. No, justice flowed through the hound’s veins, stronger than even the hunt did. It was as if Loupe was built for the job. His first encounter showed that clearly._

_Pippery had been walking his normal beat, six days after getting the hound, holding onto the chain of Loupe’s collar with as tight of a grip as he could. He didn’t feel like the master of the beast, he felt like he was holding onto some infernal machine that just barely heeded his commands. They were striding down the street next to the pub, Loupe’s ears twitching at the sounds of revelry within yet not faltering in his march._

_And then a scream echoed from a few streets down. Loupe’s reaction was instant. While Pippery had to pause, to pick out the sound from the typical night sounds and think about if it was one of fear or pain or simply getting caught up in excitement and pick out where it must have come from, Loupe didn’t think. He simply acted, surging towards the sound and near dislocating Pippery’s shoulder with the force of it, forcing the houndmaster to likewise leave rational thought behind._

_Loupe bounded through the dark underbelly of the city, darting through alleyways and brushing past people who moved aside quickly for the constable following on his heels. Another scream sounded and he answered with a sharp bark._

_After only a few minutes, minutes that felt like eons to Pippery, the pair finally made one last turn and came to a head at the entrance of an alleyway. The force at which Pippery stopped actually forced Loupe to follow his lead for the first time since the hunt began, near choking himself on the collar._

_There were three people near the end of it, two men and a woman. She was held by one of them, arms forced behind her back with one hand and hair gripped tight in the other, and the other man was leering down at her. The sharpness of steel glittered in his hand, moonlight lighting the morbid scene. It looked like a classic mugging, two men looking to bully their fellow because they thought they were more powerful. Tears shone on the woman’s face and she near sobbed when she caught sight of the constable._

_Pippery didn’t think. He threw Loupe’s leash into the air, releasing him at last, and drew his belt bell as the beast surged forth with a great bark. The strike of the clapper against metal and Pippery’s call for reinforcements intermingled with the shouts of the two men caught off guard._

  
  


Colliar was a fair man when it came to training. He understood that water breaks and catching one’s breath were necessary to not exhaust oneself. He watched everyone and stepped in to provide advice that was, though gruff, at least didn’t make one feel like they were being spit upon.

Nesdin was his complete opposite. The moment after he called out for the trio to carry on, he was directly at their heels, hounding and pushing them harder for each pause he caught sight of. The only breaks were when he barked out a particular name and forced them to spar with him.

Harcourt had been the unfortunate first to face off against the man without the supervision of Colliar. Bellecote was not eager to face off against the bounty hunter, rubbing their throat from time to time, and Nesdin had stared hard at Pippery when he tried to volunteer himself. Said that he had something special planned for the houndmaster.

Harcourt had gone down in barely a minute. Her guns had been forbidden, though Nesdin did humor her by allowing her to keep the sole dagger she wore on her person. The man was unrelenting in his pursuit, even without his axes or hook. One solid rush and body check later, he was stomping down on the sprawled out musketeer’s back to pin her down solidly and barking out for her to yield.

To her credit, she had struggled for a few moments under the man’s boot. Wriggled about in the dirt of the training grounds and reached up to paw at the boot before giving in and groaning out a “I yield!”. Nesdin let her up and ignored the hand she held up in want of aid, already spitting out criticisms. “You’d die in two minutes when the front of the line is broken. And it _will_ be broken. You can hide behind the walls of armor that take the lead all you want, but they can only do you so much good. What will you do when the hellion you’ve been cowering behind is skewered and tossed aside by a swine skiver? When a lumbering swintuar charges right past her in favor of the crowing little musketeer?”

He had equally harsh words for Bellecote when they faced each other once more, the jester now permitted to wield the sickles they toted about with them. But that meant instead of his fists and nothing else, Nesdin stood before his opponent with axe and chain held solidly.

That had been a good show. Bellecote had danced around the man, lashing out at whatever part of himself Nesdin left unguarded, but they were given punishment back just as good. They had mobility, but it was a dancing on the edge of a knife kind of mobility. One mistake could send them falling into the easy reach of the hook, the axe, a curled up fist.

It had been right after they managed to hook a sickle around the most exposed part of Nesdin, the bit of arm between his chain sleeve and thick leather glove, that Nesdin finally lashed out properly. He reached into a belt pouch as they bolted back gracefully, cocking his head just the slightest way that seemed like a taunt before suddenly whipping out his arm in their direction. Pippery had gotten only a glance at the small objects in their flight before they were embedded in Bellecote’s torso.

The reaction was instantaneous. They let out a cry of both surprise and pain, looking down at them and raising a hand to see what had just happened, steps faltering and attention effectively ruined. It was only for a short moment, but a short moment was all Nesdin needed to take up his chain, wrap it in such a way around his hands that it was held between them with a bit loose dangling, and use it to choke the jester out. They barely managed to cry out their “Yield!” when it was demanded of them.

When Bellecote pulled out one of the few remaining objects that had stayed stuck in them, they turned out to be three pronged metal spikes, a few more that hadn’t stuck littered about the ground and making it dangerous to tread there. “Caltrops.” Nesdin had answered the question everyone had, taking and pocketing the bloody ones Bellecote handed him. “The beasts here will not play by the rules. They take all they can and give no quarter. Every combat is a fight to the death, and no prey fights more dirty than the one afraid. You will have people who watch your back, but they will not be able to protect you from everything. Or willing. _Constable!_ ”

Pippery had jumped at the sudden shout of his title. “Yes?” He almost tacked on ‘sir’ at the end, a habit drilled in from a lifetime of orders from those above him.

“Would you have been able to stop me from throwing the caltrops?”

He thought the question over for a moment, really mulling it over, because he _knew_ the bounty hunter was looking for any reason to tear into him. Why, he couldn’t understand, but he had to adjust to the reality of it. The moments between the bounty hunter making any move towards his belt pouch and when the caltrops were already cutting into Bellecote were near non existent. And worse, they were subtle. Easily missed in the heat of battle. “No, I don’t think I could have.”

“If you did know and the only way to protect Bellecote was to shield them with your own body, would you?”

“Yes, I would have.” Pippery said that without hesitation, wishing the cowl wasn’t there so he could see if Nesdin’s expression faltered even the slightest bit. “As I would do for anyone here.”

Nesdin growled under his breath, but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he gestured to dismiss the three back to training until he deemed it the time to face off against the hound master, but something made him pause. Pippery watched the man halt his motion in the middle of it, casting a critical eye over the slightly hunched and still bleeding form of Bellecote. And then he did something none of them expected.

“Take it easy, jester. If they start to affect your performance too much or you begin to feel woozy, come tell me. We’ll go from there.” He showed mercy. Even awkwardly reached out to pat the shocked jester on their shoulder before properly dismissing them, even ordering Harcourt to look them over.

Of course, none of that now highly coveted mercy was spared on Pippery when they spared. “We spar twice.” Nesdin instructed, staring at the houndmaster from across the ring. “Once with the hound and once without. Back to back.” Pippery bristled at that. Bellecote was the other to face off against him twice that day, but they had time to recover in between ( _if Nesdin’s intense training could be considered recovery_ ). The bounty hunter was out to get him.

The man’s words, spoken over the silence of Harcourt aiming her first shot of the day earlier, echo in his head and Pippery pulls a dark grin. “Easy sport. Two against one, and an injured target at that.” Blood was still dripping down the bounty hunter’s arm and Pippery hoped the man would rise to the taunt.

And rise he did. His shoulders stiffened and he cocked his head at that slight angle again. “Overconfident dolt. You don’t happen to have any aces up your sleeve, do you? The law hates a cheat. I could beat you and the hound into the ground without any weapons.”

“Bet.”

“Alright.” Nesdin didn’t sound like a man who had just gotten his bluff called. “Loser owes the other a favor. Redeemable at any time.” He sounded like a man who had the other right where he wanted him. Pippery could feel the eyes of Colliar and the Heir on him, pausing in their long spanning discussion to watch.

But Pippery didn’t feel any hint of nerves fluttering in his stomach as he pulled out his blackjack and sized up his opponent. He truly did have the advantage, even if the bounty hunter seemed to punch with all the force in a horse’s kick. The man was injured, even if he didn’t show signs of pain, and Pippery had watched him in three fights already. He knew the bounty hunter had a leaning towards the underhand and throwing his weight around to off balance opponents when they didn’t do it themselves. But Bellecote and Harcourt were both of the spindly, tall sort. Pippery was a closer match to Nesdin’s own figure.

He looked to the side. Saw Bellecote and their bloodstained garb, Harcourt and the eager look in her otherwise tired eyes. Both beaten down by Nesdin.

( _“You’re a good kid, but you’ve got some interesting ideals.” The barkeep Pippery sat in front of at least blew the smoke of his cigar away from the constable. “Justice ain’t everything.”_

 _It felt like his world had ended. Pippery felt the sharp edges of a battered badge press against his leg in his pocket. The road ahead of him long and old, leading to a damned estate and a short life if the rumors were to be believed, but he must walk it for redemption. “Yes it is. The law is the lifeblood of society. I asked you for a drink.”_ )

This was for them. Compensation, reparations for what the bounty hunter dragged them through. The horridly unfair spars, the nonstop training, the harshness of it all. Pippery brandished his blackjack and waved Nesdin forth with his free hand. Courage thrummed his veins and he felt no fear looking into the deep pits of the cowl’s eyeholes. “Come face a true warrior of ju-”

“ _RAAAAH!_ ” With a sudden fearsome shout the bounty hunter charged forwards, springing from the readied position Pippery had been too focused on his own ideals to see, thundering towards the bounty hunter. He reached Pippery in only a moment, swiping out with one hand at the man as he and hound alike leapt out of his warpath.

Pippery kept his momentum to the left as he whipped a hand toward the bounty hunter and whistled sharply. Vertueux snarled, leapt after Nesdin.

And so it went. Pippery nearly got the wind knocked out of him from the force of Nesdin’s punch the first time he felt it, slugged solidly on the arm in punishment of getting too close to the man when the hound had been temporarily dealt with. The bounty hunter had her as a constant presence to consider and deal with, unable to permanently put her down for the spar. She got bodily tossed aside, hitten upon the nose to be dazed, dodged and avoided, yet kept the pressure up without giving quarter.

Nesdin’s shouting start was kept up for a few passes, powerful hits that went just a little bit wide and growls slipping out from underneath the cowl. Pippery thought he had gotten to the man with his bet, shaken the typically composed hunter, until the man suddenly dropped low and swept Pippery’s feet out from underneath him. That was almost the end right then and there, Vertueux was Pippery’s saving grace, distracting the man long enough for Pippery to scramble back up to his feet. It had been a ruse, a way to shake up the houndmaster when he thought he knew the man’s fighting style. Tricky bastard.

It was a whirling sort of dance, the pair circling around the man and striking from different directions. Blood dribbled from the sickle cut and glancing dog bites alike, bruises from the blackjack surely forming underneath the bounty hunter’s armor. Despite how he whirled on his feet and took advantage of every little slip up, slipping between more clever ways of thinking and a blunter approach to try and trip Pippery up again, there was only so much Nesdin could do.

Pippery knew when something about the man changed. Nesdin let out a grunt as he kicked at Vertueux’s side and suddenly looked up at Pippery, only a pace away. There was something like a challenge in that gaze. And then he was reaching towards his belt, letting Vertueux recover and leap towards him-

_FLASH!_

Pippery’s vision suddenly went WHITE. He could see the small item the bounty hunter palmed in his hand one moment, and was plunged into the brightness of the sun the next. He let out a cry as he staggered back, Vertueux answering in kind, and tried to reorientate himself. It was unexplainable, it was awful, and even as he tried rubbing at his eyes he could hear the thud thud thud of Nesdin’s boots upon the ground over his hound’s whines.

An arm wrapped around his throat, the force in which he was pulled towards the bounty hunter lifting his feet from the ground for a moment. Pippery let out a harsh protest, hands flying up to grab at the bloody arm choking him. The pressure did not let up and he felt a brush of cloth hanging from the bounty hunter’s cowl against his ear as the other leaned closer.

“Yield.” His voice was just barely more than a growl, and his grip tightened. Pippery stomped down the bounty hunter’s foot. His vision was finally clearing up a little, the aftereffects of whatever cursed thing Nesdin used still obscuring it though.

“I said _yield_.” Tighter still. Pippery shook his head in protest. A beat. One of his legs kicked out without his permission and his just earned vision was starting to get speckled with starbursts of darkness.

“Yield, _constable_.” The pressure was unbearable. Pippery loosened one of his hands’ grip and finally weakly tapped on the arm.

But nothing happened.

Nesdin didn’t let up. He did the opposite, tightening even further and letting out a sound that could best be described as a growl. Confusion, then fear lit up Pippery’s quickly fogging brain. He yielded! The kicking grew more vicious and he tried to tell the bounty hunter he was supposed to let go now, to make any sort of sound at all before a pathetic little wheeze. He was about to get murdered right in front of the Heir of an estate, an acclaimed warrior, and two people who he felt he had the potential to befriend all because none of them would raise a hand to the bounty hunter.

And then Nesdin finally let him go, leaving Pippery to slouch to the ground coughing and wheezing for breath as it burned his throat. Vertueux was at his side in an instant to let him support himself against her side, letting out a rumbling low growl as Nesdin did not move aside. He gave the hound a sharp look before squatting down closer to the level of Pippery. There were tears in the houndmaster’s eyes and he could only look up at the man as he struggled for breath and waited for the bounty hunter to talk first. He’d gotten his hands on Pippery’s blackjack sometime during his coughing fit.

“You won’t be able to get away with what your kind did in Lyon here, constable. I’m going to be watching you _very_ closely.” No criticism, just a cold threat. A shudder ran down Pippery’s spine. And then he blinked.

“You cheated.” The words came out with a cough, but he mustered a pretty good glare. “You said you’d be able to beat Vertueux and I into the ground with just your fists.” That was easier to focus on than the threat, the hissed words and questions that they brought.

“My fists and my wits, _constable_.” The word was spat out like a curse. “These,” He darts a hand into a belt pouch, pulls out a small circular object, “Are not weapons. They are tools. Flashbangs. You have a brain sharper than your hound? Then use it. Your carelessness cost you just a favor now, but it may spill blood the next time.”

Then Nesdin straightened up and raised his voice to a bark as he offered the blackjack back. “Up! Without your hound now.”

 

Getting started right after almost getting choked out by the bounty hunter was hard, but Pippery managed. Had to, because Nesdin was really on the warpath now, cruel and unrelenting in his attack.

The first time a strike from Pippery’s blackjack gets shrugged off by the bounty hunter with nary a wince, the houndmaster wasn’t that bothered. The man was well built and experienced. Had probably tangled with law enforcement in the past already. Pippery clung to that explanation. That would explain how well the man seemed to predict his every move.

The second time’s a little worse. He’s starting to breath a little heavy, throat burning from the pain of suffocation, and can feel sweat beading on his brow despite the winter chill in the air. Vertueux is yapping somewhere outside of the sparring ring, collar held in the gauntleted grip of Colliar, and he can’t feel any emotion from the other man.

The third time, Pippery’s starts to feel a little perturbed. Or maybe that’s because his strike didn’t even land right, the bounty hunter pushing through it to bury a fist into the houndmaster’s gut. But getting thoroughly thrashed in front of his two fellows isn’t the worst thing about the fight. Its the emptiness. He coughs through a shaky breath and gets a good look in that cowl as he dodges away from another fist. There’s nothing in those eyes.

Criminals were the passionate sort. They always, no matter the circumstances or motives, had some sort of emotion that drove their horrid acts. Pippery had brought down murderers and thieves, wrestled bloody knives out of grasping grips, sent Vertueux bounding towards the insane and the dangerous alike. But there wasn’t the slightest hint of that fevered heat in how Nesdin suddenly grasped at his wrist with a vice like grip. The distance the bounty hunter had put between them clicked in Pippery’s mind as the man suddenly kicked upwards, burying his boot right between the houndmaster’s legs

Even as Pippery keeled over with an ugly grunt, he heard a snicker from the watching crowd. It could’ve been either Bellecote or Harcourt, he wouldn’t put it past them. Nesdin then twisted his wrist down, using his other hand to snatch the blackjack away before letting go entirely and moving back a pace. Without the mans support, Pippery let out a groan and let shaky legs drop him to the ground. Another laugh sounded and he was pretty sure it was Bellecote. Damn jester.

The bounty hunter fought smoothly. Clearly well practiced, his methods and style of combat were tailored towards humans. Pippery knew to expect as much, but the degree of casual, controlled violence in the man’s motions was shocking.

Oh. The man was talking.

“-Reliant on the hound. Take it away and you are nothing more than a sitting duck. Are you immune from all assault when alone? A mad cultist will not wait for you to regroup before attacking. A zombie of the Weald will not sit by patiently for when you are prepared. I held back.” It sure didn’t feel like he did, but after seeing him just the round before Pippery begrudgingly believed him. “They will not. Do you understand?”

Pippery sucks in a breath, pushes down the pain, and forces himself up to his feet. Goes to meet the bounty hunter’s eye and sees nothing but darkness in that cowl’s eyeholes. “Understood.”

Nesdin huffs out a breath, tosses back over the blackjack. “I hope so, constable.” He waves the houndmaster towards the two watchers. “Go join them. I have to speak with Colliar.”

 

“I can’t believe he kicked you in the balls.”

Pippery groaned and weakly slugged Harcourt on the arm. “Shut up already. It wasn’t even that bad. He only got me because I was worn out.”

“I do hope you weren’t hoping on siring any little puppies, good houndmaster. The bounty hunter collected the prize of those premature murders before our very eyes.” Bellecote spoke in a lofty tone and Pippery resisted the urge to punch them too.

“And what was the prize he got out of it?” He had to ask. That was the curse of the jester’s jokes, he was very quickly finding out. It would eat at him if he didn’t know the punchline.

“The pleasure of kicking you in the balls, of course.”

The one thing that saved Bellecote from a well deserved punch was the approach of the Heir and their companions. Nesdin was at their left, Colliar their right, and neither expression was particularly revealing. In the bright light of the cloudless afternoon, the limp the Heir walked with was apparent. They masked it well, with a poised posture and eyes that demanded they were met, but it was a peculiar thing for a noble. 

There was a moment of silence before Colliar spoke up. “Well, none of you dropped dead. That’s a good sign.” Nesdin huffed to himself and muttered something that sounded awfully close to, “Just barely.”

“I have been told by Colliar that you are physically prepared for what the Hamlet has in store for your stock.” The Heir spoke up, giving Nesdin a hard look for the comment. “We shall see if you can you can withstand the mental horrors. The biggest question is if you are willing to commit to this task.

“I am here to correct the mistakes of my Ancestor. They are many numbered and horrific, and the creatures spawned from them are just as terrible. You will be compensated for your work through pay when you complete expeditions, free food and board, and the freedom to lay claim to what you find out there that I do not require. There are many a strange artifact and tool out here.

“You may quit at any time, for whatever reason. The only exception I will make to this rule is when you are slated for an expedition that I have personally assigned you to. If you are slated for one that you merely signed up for with your fellow colleagues, I will not protest. But they surely will. Reynauld and Dismas have already run through the rules with you, and that is my piece said. Do you understand?”

The three nodded.

A smile graced the Heir’s face, a rare ray of warmth entering their eyes if just for a moment. “Then welcome to the Emmerich Estate. I look forwards to your employ under my command.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik it seems like near pointless but theres some seeds planted in this chapter thatre going to carry throughout (nesdins animosity of pippery for the Big Lyon Guard Scandal, nesdin awkwardly going a little easier on bellecote, his rough teaching, etc lol)
> 
> pippery got all hyped up before getting the shit kicked out of him by nesdin bc he suddenly got taken away w his ideals and saw nesdin as the big bad villain who was beating down him+his companions like a school yard bully lol 
> 
> the set up for The Lads joining emmerichs hell estate has finally........... come to an end tune in next time for nesdin to dance on the knifes edge of an abusive affliction for an entire chapter while The Lads try to deal w their first expedition (and maybe after that an heir chapter babey!!!!)
> 
> EDIT- just went back and added smth small abt the heirs limp bc i was reading through and realized i forgot it h its an important thing to their character

**Author's Note:**

> nesdin, suppressing all of his emotions and reactions to things that he doesnt view as professional: im healthy. those three others are the unhealthy ones. ive got healthy coping mechanisms
> 
> the houndmaster will show up next chapter or the one after that (im running off of no schedule or outline babey!!!) im really excited for that hes a Good Guy+has a cute dog
> 
> also little personal backstory thats relevant to this. im the bastard author behind 'alms for the sick' that orphaned work w a singular chapter that was nothing but setting up the story lol it was a leper/highwayman thing so mortimer+holland will probably show up! the reason why i stopped writing that (like. beyond plain old lack of motivation) was that only a few days after posting the first chapter mortimer fucking died in the weald ghfhhdhs local leper found dead in ditch i may eventually revisit though! :^)


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